


Folle Amoureuse

by foppishaplomb



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Eventual Romance, F/F, Frottage, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Obsessive Behavior, Sexual Assault, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foppishaplomb/pseuds/foppishaplomb
Summary: Ordered to kill Tracer before she can become a threat to Talon, Widowmaker instead chooses to take her home.





	1. Une Balle

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written a longfic before, oh jeez. i will do my best to finish it. tags will be updated with the story, but keep in mind it will be fairly dark for awhile, so if that is not your jam please be warned.

Widowmaker didn't know how long her crosshairs had been hovering over Tracer’s head. Her finger rested on the trigger. All it would take was one simple movement, and the mission would be done.

 _Kill her,_ she told herself.

It was easy enough, and yet her body felt frozen. It seemed her temperature had finally seeped its way into her joints. She was an ice sculpture, beautiful but useless. _Kill her. Do as you were ordered._

She watched Tracer bounce around her flat, chattering away to that girlfriend of hers. Emily. Widowmaker flinched every time she heard the name. She remembered finding out about her for the first time. It hadn't been difficult to squeeze the trigger then. She'd spent an hour on the shooting range, imagining each target to have red hair and an ever-so-English name. Her scope lingered on Emily.

_No, not her. Kill the right one._

Widowmaker was Talon’s best assassin. She had been given an order, by Doomfist himself. He had seen that the girl and the monkey who imprisoned him were looking to reunite Talon’s greatest opposition, and he wanted the threat gone before it could begin. He had known that what little there was of Overwatch’s second coming would fall apart without her.

She had been easy to crush, he said, flexing his hand into a fist. Just make sure the monkey wasn't around when you kill her.

Widowmaker always carried out her orders. Part one was easy: no monkey to be seen. So why couldn't she seem to carry out part two? Scope on her head. The wind was right. No obstacles between them. _Shoot._ Widowmaker’s finger twitched on the trigger. Tracer’s laugh bubbled out of the warmth and light of the open window, making Widowmaker shiver in the cold night air she didn't feel.

Tracer had been a thorn in Widowmaker’s side for far too long. She should relish the opportunity to finally kill her. It had been a long time coming. Widowmaker had been watching her for hours, ever since she came home from a day of heroics still in her trademark bomber jacket. A million perfect opportunities passed her by. Each time she tried, some new flash of… _feeling_ stopped her. It was ridiculous. A spider was meant to only feel during the kill.

Her finger couldn’t move. She could remember the first time she ever heard that laugh. It has been so long ago--had it been seven years, now? Before the fall of Overwatch and only a precious few years after the death of Gérard, she had heard a laugh behind her and saw a flash of electric teal light in the corner of her eye. Widowmaker whipped around, her rifle already cocked, and out of thin air appeared a girl no older than nineteen. She was smiling and proud in the royal blue of Overwatch. She aimed her pistols right at Widowmaker. “You're going to want to lower that rifle, love.”

At the time it had been nothing. Just another Overwatch annoyance with strange powers and overinflated confidence. If it weren't for her speed and those time powers, Tracer would have been dead that day. They made the only difference, as Widowmaker had found herself unable to hit her.

It was always the same story. Tracer was the one person Widowmaker couldn't shoot. At first it was her speed, her blinks, her maddening ability to be everywhere at once. Over time, it might have become something else. Against all odds, Widowmaker had found herself nurturing a growing interest and sort of attachment to her.

It had never interfered with her orders before. It had simply been a sort of pastime; someone to flirt with and to tease, and a warm thought to keep the numbness at bay. Besides, the warmth had never come from fondness. Widowmaker did not _like_ Tracer. She hated her for her smile, her laugh, and her light, and she hated her for being the opposite of everything Widowmaker was trained to believe in. She had long dreamed of the day she would be able to grind the foolish girl into the ground. It was a sense of ownership, if anything. Tracer was hers to kill.

Doomfist had respected this, and it went a long way toward Widowmaker's forgiveness for his rough treatment of Tracer all that time ago. He had given Widowmaker the job. Surely he didn't _know_ , but being the best of the best had its perks.

So it was. Widowmaker lay on the rooftop across the way, her rifle trained on a spiky brown head. If she didn't do it, another would. After so many years of chronal dissociation, Tracer’s time had finally run out.

Breathe in, breathe out. One shot, one kill.

Widowmaker took the shot.

“Oi! What was that? Emily, are you okay?”

She missed.

“Lena, what's happening?”

“Someone's bleedin’ shootin’ at us! You stay hidden, I'll go check this out!”

Widowmaker, the perfect sniper, Talon’s greatest assassin, had fucking _missed._

Widowmaker felt something approaching panic set into her bones as she scrambled to gather her wits. She aimed her grappling hook and meant to be out of there before Tracer could pull on her goggles. But as always, Tracer was too fast for her. She felt a hand grab her by her arm and whipped around to face her target.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tracer spat, her cute little voice rising with anger. There were no quips to trade this time. Widowmaker had crossed a line. “You're playing target practice in my bloody flat, trying to kill me and my damn girlfriend?”

“Not your girlfriend, _chérie._ ” Widowmaker struggled to gather her composure into the perfect ice queen Tracer knew. “Talon has only ordered the death of you.”

“So that's it, then? You're going to kill me?” Tracer threw a punch to the jaw that caught Widowmaker off guard. Tracer was so rarely this aggressive in their fights, but this was no little scuffle. Something had to give. “I'd like to see you try.”

“ _Bonne chance, ma chérie._ ” Widowmaker had no time to mourn their quickly deteriorating relationship. She had a target to kill.

First: neutralize her time powers. In close-quarters, this was much easier. Pinning her down was enough to keep her from accessing them. A few good blows to the face and a shoulder to the chronal accelerator got the small, fairly fragile girl laid out on the ground long enough for Widowmaker to dive in for the kill.

It was only a split second, but Widowmaker caught a glimpse of Tracer staring up at her. Her hair was mussed, her jacket wasn't zipped up all the way, and her goggles were slightly askew. Her eyes were wide and terrified. Her mouth was curved into a whispered gasp. The moonlight lit a perfect picture of fear at the monster before her. Widowmaker felt her heart skip a beat and for the last time that night, her hands froze up again.

 _My God,_ she thought. _I cannot kill her._

Gérard had never even had the chance to be afraid.

Tracer lunged. Acting on instinct, Widowmaker threw down a venom mine at their feet, filling the air with toxic smoke. Tracer fell over, coughing, and curled up into herself to cover her mouth. She would recall in a moment and start over again. Widowmaker had seen it all before.

She didn't give her the chance. She knocked her over the head with the butt of her rifle, leaving Tracer dizzy enough for the venom mine’s gift to knock her out. Widowmaker savored her gasp of pain. She stood and watched the unconscious girl at her feet, taking in the way she lay there, so pretty and helpless, and so fully alive. The chronal accelerator glowed in the dark London night.

The thought occurred to Widowmaker that no one would question a missing body if she died by a shot to the chronal accelerator. After all, she had been missing to time once before. It could all come together so well, but Widowmaker had never disobeyed a direct order before.

 _Ah well,_ she thought. _One swallow does not a summer make._

She picked Tracer up and hefted her over her shoulder, careful to keep hold of her as she sent out her grappling hook. The widow shot out her line of web and flew off into the night.


	2. Embrasser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer wakes up in Widowmaker’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for alcohol use and sexual assault.

Tracer woke up with a desert-dry throat and a raging headache, her face on some sort of carpet. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her blurry vision. She didn't recognize her surroundings. She was surrounded by crates and boxes, and it was too dark well to see without the glow of her--

Her accelerator! Tracer jumped up in a panic, feeling her chest for her missing accelerator. She spotted it charging outside, still within range, but she couldn’t relax. There was a set of elegant, curved bars between them. A padlock kept them firmly closed. She pulled at the bars, shaking them with a loud clanking sound. They wouldn't budge.

“It seems you've found yourself in my web,  _chérie."_

Tracer's head whipped around to the source of the voice. She had been so focused on her accelerator that she hadn't even registered Widowmaker. She was sitting on a crate, a glass of wine in her hand.

Tracer's eyes flicked around the room. She finally registered the crates and barrels around her. She was in a wine cellar. Her eyes went back to Widowmaker. She tried to speak, but her mouth felt like it was full of cotton. It came out more as a croak. “What are you trying to pull?”

“Oh, you sound thirsty,” said Widowmaker with mock sympathy. She took a sip from her glass. “Look around. There's plenty of wine.”

Widowmaker was dressed in a black silk bathrobe. It opened slightly to show a hint of expensive lingerie, and a long, perfect leg peeked out to cross itself over her knee. Tracer found herself blushing. She shook her head to clear it. It didn't matter what she was wearing or how beautiful she was. They were enemies.

“Let me out!” Tracer demanded. “Did Talon put you up to this? I won't tell you guys a single word, cross my heart.”

Widowmaker allowed herself a small smirk. Tracer noticed the slight violet flush over her indigo features. How much had she been drinking? “Talon didn't put me up to anything. I told you, _chérie._ Talon wanted you dead.”

“So why aren't I?” Tracer pressed. “You had the chance. I know you did.”

“I don't know.” Widowmaker downed the rest of her glass and stood up to meet Tracer in front of the bars. Tracer could feel the coolness of her body. It took everything she had not to step back. “By all accounts, you should be dead now, but through the goodness of my heart, I have brought you here. You are a guest in my home. Welcome to Château Guillard. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Tracer glared at her. “I don't know what you're planning, but you can't keep me here.”

“And what will you do? Blink through the walls? Ah, wait.” Widowmaker gestured with the empty wine glass toward Tracer’s chronal accelerator, gently glowing just out of reach. Tracer gripped the bars tighter. “Even if you do get out, my home is an island. I should think you will have trouble swimming with such a heavy device strapped to your chest.”

“Someone will come looking for me.”

“Who? Your ape? Your _girlfriend?"_  There was such unexpected venom in the word, Tracer was taken aback. “To the rest of the world, you’re dead. Your body is lost to time. Even if they doubt that story, why would they ever think to find you here?”

“Where is… here?” said Tracer cautiously. Château Guillard didn't ring any bells. Tracer had thought her last name was Lacroix. Was it an alias?

“I told you. This is my home.” Widowmaker chuckled. It was a surprising sound, genuine and slightly desperate, not the cold, controlled mocking Tracer had always heard before. “Gérard and I were to grow old here. It seems you and I will be, instead.”

“I'm not staying here.”

“You don't have a choice.” Widowmaker slipped her hand through the bars and took Tracer’s chin. Tracer flinched, expecting ice, but the alcohol seemed to have warmed her slightly into a lukewarm touch. Tracer jerked her head away and stepped back into the wine cellar.

“You are my prisoner,” said Widowmaker. “I do not expect you to follow orders, but the least you could do is let me touch you.”

“Stay away from me,” Tracer spat.

“No.” Widowmaker produced a key from the pocket of her robe. Tracer stared at it like a dog at a bone. Widowmaker noticed and smiled, waving the key mockingly. “Do you know what I went through to bring you here?”

“Oh, it must have been _so_  troublesome, kidnapping me.”

“I saved your life, stupid girl. Talon wants you dead. I hid you in the only place they won't find you.”

“And why would you do that? It's not out of general compassion for humankind.”

“No, it's not.” Widowmaker unlocked the padlock and slipped inside. Tracer dashed for the now-open bars, but Widowmaker expected it and grabbed her by the shoulder. She pushed her into the barrels of wine, pinning her there with her body. The bathrobe came open, but Widowmaker didn't seem to care. “I don't know why I decided to spare you,” she said. Her perfect lips were only inches away from Tracer’s. “I suppose I wanted you to be mine.”

“I have a girlfriend,” said Tracer.

“Not like that, _petite sotte._ And you don't, not anymore. To her you are dead. I want to own you, completely. Make you mine, body and soul.”

Tracer tried to push her away, but Widowmaker only came closer, pressing her body against Tracer’s and pinning her in place entirely. “You're insane.”

“Perhaps.” Her breath smelled of wine. “I do not care anymore. This is what I am now. You will be mine--you _are_ mine. It is the only thing left for you now.”

“How sloshed are you, love?”

Widowmaker slapped her. Tracer’s hand went to her cheek, but Widowmaker grabbed her wrist. She kissed Tracer, long and hard, and when Tracer didn't kiss her back all she did was kiss her harder. Her tongue forced Tracer’s mouth open, and by the end, both were breathing hard. Tracer could feel Widowmaker’s heartbeat. It felt almost normal.

Tracer went to slap her back. Widowmaker grabbed her other wrist. “Don't do that again,” snapped Tracer. Widowmaker’s lipstick was smeared. It was hard to look away from. She felt guilt. She couldn't even tell Emily what had happened.

“I will do whatever I want to you.” Widowmaker kissed Tracer’s neck. Tracer squeaked in surprise, and Widowmaker’s teeth sunk into her skin.

Tracer yelped. “What are you, a vampire?”

“Maybe,” murmured Widowmaker against Tracer’s throat. “Cold and dead and cruel. It sounds right.”

“Get off of me.”

Widowmaker’s knee went between Tracer’s thighs, forcing them apart. “Never.” She ground her body against Tracer’s, her breath quickening into a soft panting. Tracer tried to shoulder her away in disgust, but she was trapped there, useless, as Widowmaker rutted against her. She felt helpless. She felt used. She really did feel dead.

Widowmaker’s hand released Tracer’s to slip inside her lacy black panties. Tracer took the opportunity to push her away. Widowmaker moaned, stumbling back, and seemed to bring herself to completion, gasping “ _chérie_ ” with plush lips parted.

Tracer shuddered. No fluids had gotten on her, but she felt sticky and unclean. She crossed her arms over her chest. She needed a shower. If this was an island, maybe a dive in the water until she could swim away to freedom. Widowmaker’s flushed face was upturned, panting towards Heaven. Her eyes opened into yellow slits, cat-eyes glowing in the dim light. She turned back to Tracer. Tracer glared back as best she could, but she was afraid, more afraid of Widowmaker than she had ever been before.

“You are mine,” Widowmaker repeated, closing the distance to kiss her again. Tracer stayed frozen, unable to move, until Widowmaker finally released her and stepped back. Her chest rose and fell with her heavy breaths. “ _Je suis folle de toi,_ ” she whispered. She stared at Tracer for several long moments, and whatever she saw, it must have been enough. She turned to go, locking the padlock again behind her.

Tracer raced up to the bars. “You can't keep me here forever!” Her heart was beating like she had run a marathon. Her face felt hot, and she couldn't swallow past the lump in her throat. Her hands on the bars trembled violently.

Widowmaker ignored her. She did not look at her as she left. “I will bring you food and water.”

Tracer called after her. “Widowmaker! _Amélie!_ Let me go!' There was no response. Widowmaker disappeared out of Tracer’s sight.


	3. Un Bain Chaud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer has a nice bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for noncon.

Widowmaker stayed away for the next few days, only going down to visit her prisoner when it was time to feed her. She looked forward to each visit, though all Tracer did was glare at her and demand to be let out. Widowmaker gave her the finest food, but did Tracer appreciate it? No, all she cared about was her precious "freedom." Didn't she see that Widowmaker was doing her a favor? She would be dead if she were anywhere else.

It was hard to stay angry with her. She had never experienced what Widowmaker had. Widowmaker couldn't remember it well, but she had been a prisoner once, back when she was Amélie. She hadn't understood why it was important then, either. Then Talon showed her the way. Widowmaker did not want to treat Tracer the same way Talon had treated her. It made her stronger, but at a cost. Part of Widowmaker wanted Tracer to lose her naivety, her hope, but she was afraid of what Tracer would be without it. She had imprisoned  _Tracer,_ not some nobody with her face and name.

Every day was the same since the first. Widowmaker came down to the wine cellar, three times a day. She watched Tracer eat in near-silence. Tracer threw insults and threats and big words at her. Widowmaker did not react, simply watching until Tracer finally ate her food. In a few hours, it would begin again. Each short visit was a burst of excitement in an otherwise dreadful day. Widowmaker thought constantly of coming down to visit her again, but something stopped her. She remembered the isolation of her early time in Talon. Perhaps some time alone would make Tracer more inclined to enjoy her presence.

It was so difficult to stay away. Even during the brief moments they spent together, Widowmaker thought of little but pinning her down again and taking her touch, sucking away her warmth like a vampire, but she stopped herself. She had acted too rashly that first day. She had shown too much. Tracer could have mistaken it for power over Widowmaker, when, of course, Tracer was completely powerless. Widowmaker did not want to share her control.

She came down on the fourth day, dressed in a simple turtleneck and slacks. Tracer was curled up in a ball on the floor. She snapped to attention the second she heard the click of Widowmaker's heels, a sight which brought a small smile to Widowmaker's lips each time she saw it. Tracer was still wearing the same bomber jacket and leggings she had been kidnapped in. It was time for a change. "You need a bath."

"Oh, you're finally letting me out?" Tracer snapped. Her pretty features looked so cute twisted into an angry glare. "I'm not some puppy you can just lock up until it's bathtime."

"Don't be stupid, _chérie._ A puppy I could let outside. You, I could not trust."

Tracer frowned harder. How Widowmaker wanted to kiss her. "It's about time you show me round the prison, anyway."

"So you can plot an escape?"

"'Course."

"I don't think so." Widowmaker took a strip of fabric out from her pocket. She unlocked the cage and pinned Tracer down, after a brief chase. The girl was quick on her feet.

"Let me go!" Tracer struggled and kicked, but Widowmaker had the advantage of size, and soon the blindfold was tied around her eyes and Widowmaker had her arms twisted behind her back.

"Do not test me," Widowmaker whispered into her ear. "My rifle is always by my side. I may have spared your life for now, but I can change that at any moment."

"Oh, sod off!"

Widowmaker led, or rather shoved, Tracer through the large, empty house, their footsteps echoing loudly. "You know it's pointless to do this," Tracer said. "I've already seen it when you took me to the loo."

"Pointless? No. It is fun." Widowmaker passed a hand over Tracer's eyes, just to make sure the blindfold was on tight enough. She held onto her wrists when they came to the bathroom. It was a large, old-fashioned bathroom with a huge clawfoot tub. Widowmaker had already drawn the bath before she came down. "Shirt off." Before Tracer could react, Widowmaker was already unzipping her jacket and yanking it off, her T-shirt following soon after. Tracer struggled to keep it on, but was too disoriented to put up a real fight. She was left in her bra and leggings. Widowmaker smiled at the sight. She ran a hand up Tracer's belly, relishing the way Tracer shivered. "You may do the rest, if you do as you're told."

"Why would I undress in front of you?"

"You're already undressed, _chérie._ There is no point in prolonging it."

Tracer seemed to see the logic in this, and hesitantly began to pull off her leggings and shoes. She was left standing in her underwear. Widowmaker admired the sight. Tracer was a tiny, twiggy thing, with little freckles dotting her knees and shoulders. She wore a mismatched white sports bra and blue cotton panties. Widowmaker wished to drink it all in and never let the memory escape.

Widowmaker took Tracer's hand and stopped her from removing the rest herself. Tracer's hand was small and soft, with short, slightly uneven fingernails. Widowmaker kissed her knuckles. "Allow me."

"You just said I could do it." Tracer's face was red beneath the blindfold. Widowmaker brushed the fingers of her free hand over her cheeks, then down her pale throat. "Y-you're not going to watch, are you?"

"Of course I am, _chérie._ "

"I'm not bathing in front of you!"

"You are my prisoner. I don't know how many times I have to repeat it before you get it, you foolish girl."

Widowmaker pressed her into the bathroom wall, pushing Tracer's bra up as she did. She squeezed her breast, smiling as she felt the nipple harden under her cold palm. Tracer shoved at her. Widowmaker shouldered her, hard, and kneed her in the stomach. "Stop fighting me."

"No!" Tracer coughed out, curled up into her knees. Widowmaker had hit her hard. She could hardly fight what she couldn't see. She reached for the blindfold. "Stop touching me. Leave me alone!"

Widowmaker glared. Tracer couldn't see it, and Widowmaker wanted to keep it that way. She hit her and grabbed her wrists. "I will do whatever I like to you." She pulled Tracer up by her arm and yanked down her panties. Tracer fought to stop her, and tripped, toppling both of them into the bathroom floor. Widowmaker's head hit the edge of the tub hard, dazing her, but she held onto Tracer too tightly for Tracer to get anywhere. She dug her nails into Tracer's arms and waited for the stars to pass. Tracer's warm body was pressed against hers. Tracer was breathing hard.

" _Chérie,_ " Widowmaker breathed, her hand snaking down to Tracer's privates of her own accord.

Tracer slapped her hand away. "My name is Lena." Widowmaker couldn't be sure, with the blindfold, but tears seemed to be wetting Tracer's cheeks. "Tracer to you. I am not your sweetheart."

Widowmaker flipped her over and pinned her down, making sure to hit her head against the tub. "You are mine." She kissed her hard, wanting it to bruise, and kissed her and kissed her until Tracer was left whimpering. "Stay still, or I will make you bleed all over the porcelain, do you understand?"

Tracer didn't respond. Widowmaker stood up and, watching Tracer carefully, removed her own clothes and set them aside. Tracer didn't move. She seemed frozen, curled up into herself. Widowmaker stepped over and pulled her bra the rest of the way off. "Stand up."

Tracer obeyed. She was so cute, the way she shivered and tried to cover herself. Widowmaker's breath caught. It took so much of her not to pin her down again and kiss her. "Come." Widowmaker led Tracer into the bath, carefully helping her step into it without slipping. Both of them already had enough lumps from this whole ordeal. Widowmaker gently pushed on Tracer's shoulders to get her to sit down. Her hand moved down and lingered over Tracer's breast.

"Don't," Tracer whined.

"Shh. First I will clean you."

Tracer appeared to have lost all her fight for the moment. She sat, passive, as Widowmaker soaped up her up, carefully cleaning her. She took her time. Every inch of Tracer was something to be cherished. There were three freckles between her shoulderblades. Widowmaker counted them and kissed each one.

"I hate you," said Tracer. Her voice was soft. Widowmaker wished she could wrap herself in it like a blanket.

"Good," said Widowmaker. She washed Tracer's long, skinny legs and pulled them apart. Tracer finally tried to pull away again, but Widowmaker held firm. She pushed Tracer back, so her head was leaning on the rim of the tub, and pulled her hips up so that they were out of the water. Widowmaker shushed her as Tracer began to protest, and then leaned down to kiss the inside of Tracer's thigh. She kissed a line up the sensitive skin, then planted one on her pussy. She pushed her tongue between the folds.

"A-Ah--Stop--"

Widowmaker ignored her. She hadn't eaten a woman out in so long. It didn't take long before she had Tracer whimpering and squirming under her touch. The tears on Tracer's face mixed with the water, until Widowmaker could almost believe she wasn't crying. " _Chérie,_ " Widowmaker murmured into her work. Tracer's hips jerked and bucked. She tried to get away, but could get no purchase on the tub. The noises she made warmed Widowmaker more than the bathwater ever could.

Tracer came, inevitably. It made every ounce of trouble it took to bring her here worth it. She was left spent and weak and no longer fighting. She was like putty in Widowmaker's hands as Widowmaker lay with her for a few moments, lazily stroking her naked body and breathing in the scent of her neck.

Of course, the bath had to come to an end. Widowmaker dressed herself and helped Tracer out of the tub. She pulled off the blindfold, now thoroughly soaked, and Tracer blinked and sniffled a few times, wiping her eyes with her hands. Widowmaker kissed Tracer again, running her hands through her wet hair. She took the silk bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and wrapped Tracer up in it.

"Come with me."

"No."

"Yes." Widowmaker was feeling generous, so she felt inclined against bringing Tracer back to that cold, uncomfortable wine cellar. She took Tracer by the hand and dragged her to one of the many spare rooms in the cavernous home and half-showed, half-pushed her into it. "You may stay here for now."

"Thanks ever so much," growled Tracer, guarded, holding herself. Widowmaker didn't wait for Tracer to say more. She closed the door behind her and returned to the bathroom to clean up. She picked up Tracer's jacket and left it on her own bed. Tracer didn't need it anymore.

She finished herself off in the bathtub, alone. The water had gone cold, but Widowmaker didn't feel it.


End file.
